


Stars Against the Black Sky Compare Not

by PersonyPepper



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Baby Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Creature Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Curses, Demon Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Falling In Love, Feel-good, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, Kinda, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Teenagers, Young Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Young Jaskier | Dandelion, well jaskier thinks its a blessing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: Its eyes are a vivid amber, glowing in the dark, winking in and out of existence with the creature’s occasional blinking. Jaskier thinks that the sun has turned black because the creature’s eyes have stolen all its color, burning yellow and glowing warm, leaving the sun dark and cold.“Hello,” Julian says to it, taking a step forward and pausing when the creature steps back. “I’m… I’m not going to hurt you, please.”Or, Jaskier meets a creature in the woods.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 44
Kudos: 449





	Stars Against the Black Sky Compare Not

Julian is fifteen when he meets the creature. The Curse of the Black Sun turns day to night, and everyone is left holed up inside their homes. He can practically taste fear in the air, everyone from commonfolk to Jaskier’s father, the Count of Lettenhove, hide safely indoors. And yet, Julian slips down long hallways decorated with ornate tapestries and grand pillars.

Down the staircases, under the arch of the back door, and into the wild.

The Black Sun does strange things to the lands, to anything that’s exposed to the pitch-black night of the sky; She taints with Her darkness whenever She arises every hundred years. If he doesn’t stay out too long, She won’t kill him. No matter what the elders say, Julian does not believe Her to be a curse of evil, far too _whimsical_ , far too… beautiful.

The world is a mix of grey and black, the curse leeching the gorgeous emeralds of the summer trees, the clear blues of a little brooks are entirely devoid of color. Julian thinks it’s marvelous, eyes wide with awe as he looks above himself to the clouds, and below to the sepia ground. He feels as if he’s slipped into a world of his books, the ink-drawn sketches of fictitious forests and cities— they surround him now. Julian holds up his hand, watches it fade from its healthy flush to a pale hue. His nails turn black— he looks into a brook and his hair is dark, dark brown where, before, it had been a vibrant blonde.

The curse has touched him; not that he cares; Jaskier rather thinks it’s quite cool, like the brilliant black of the elven elders’ hair in his books before humans had so cruelly killed them off centuries ago. Julian finds himself a patch of clover, a sad frown upon his lips in memory of the evils his kind has done, before turning his mind to grey weeds and greyer wildflowers. He sets to making a bouquet, single minded focus making his forehead crease as he ties it off with a blade of dry grass. Julian grins, teeth bright white under the monochromatic sun.

Behind him, a twig snaps.

Julian whirls around, eyes wide with more curiosity than alarm, the reckless youth in him forgetting of the murderers and monsters that roam the world. _Who else would be out in the wild,_ he thinks, _under the Black Sun?_ He does hope it’s Sofia, the baker’s daughter with eyes as violet as… as violets. What other thing has a color as vibrant as her eyes? No, no, violets it must be. Her eyes are as beautifully violet as violets, yes— lost in his thoughts, Julian misses the entrance of the shy creature that comes to stand some ways away from him.

It blinks at him, half-hidden behind a tree; the hand that grips mossy bark is pitch-black— Lettenhove is a place of all skins, from blinding pales to rich browns, but the creature’s skin is like a starless night. Yet, it is not the creature’s skin that captures Julian’s attention so… its eyes are amber. A vivid amber, glowing in the dark, winking in and out of existence with the creature’s occasional blinking. Jaskier thinks that The Sun has turned black because the creature’s eyes have stolen all of Her color, burning yellow and glowing warm, leaving the sun dark and cold like shadows that linger in the corners of libraries. Whimsical indeed.

“Hello,” Julian says to it, taking a step forward and pausing when the creature steps back. “I’m… I’m not going to hurt you, please.” He glances at the colorless bouquet in his hand, and holds it out. The creature looks at him for a second more before skittering off into the forest. Julian wears a pout, eyes sad as he returns to sit in his patch of clovers and sets the small clump of flowers tied together on a rock a bit to his side.

He stares at the grey clovers, head resting in hand only to perk up as he hears shuffling from nearby. When he looks up, the creature is sat opposite to him, a bouquet, of its own making no doubt, held out to Julian. The boy grins, grabbing his own bouquet to the creature and delightfully exchanging achromatic gifts. The creature smiles with a hesitant crook of its lips that looks much more like a grimace. Julian adores it. 

The creature sets upon working on another, plucking clover after clover, and gently pinching together stems to hold them together without crushing them beneath the sharpness of its nails. Julian curiously looks at it under the dim light of sky— the creature is not much larger than himself, its hands and feet similar to his own, though Julian thinks he himself might be a bit taller. Its hair is silver, as if all the missing stars from its night-black skin have chosen to grow out of its head and have decided to drape over its shoulders.

“What are you doing here? The Black Sun is high, it’s not safe.” The creature looks at him with a playful little smile, grimace softened. The words that escape its lips are a set of lilting growls that no doubt have meaning… Julian knows a-many-a-language, and yet, he’s never heard one like this. It only piques his interest more.

“My name is Julian. I can’t understand you,” he states matter-of-factly, and the creature tilts its head curiously, its thin tail flicking behind it as it blinks at him.

“Geralt.” Its voice is a hoarse sound, gravelly, as if it hasn’t used in ages. “And I said, ‘She is dangerous, but I am a child of Hers. You are the one being changed by Mother. She is more dangerous to you.’” Julian grins, dust shining under grey light as he inches closer to the creat— the boy. Geralt. 

“It’s fine, Atlina said to not go out, but I’m glad I did. I wouldn’t have met you if I hadn’t.” Geralt looks at him for a moment longer before inching forward. 

“You should leave,” Geralt says, reaching up to braid flowers into Julian’s hair, “You shouldn’t have seen me. You’ll be marked; you’re being cursed as we speak—” he glances down at Julian’s hands, “ —your nails.” Julian melts into the boy’s touch, taking the chance to get a closer look at the great horns that curve over Geralt’s head, black against the shiny white of his hair. He leans closer, and thinks he can see a fine layer of white freckles over and around the boy’s nose, along his chest. He finds himself drawn to them, aching to trace the pad of his thumb over them… 

“You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever seen,” he’s young, stupid, “I don’t mind the Black Sun, I fear not what She may do to me if your beauty is of Her creation.” Amber eyes, so bright against the stark darkness that surrounds them, look into his own. “Come home with me,” Julian whispers. “Come with me." 

Geralt’s gaze softens, and Julian is helpless to close the scant distance between them, pressing his lips against ink-colored ones. He slips his eyes shut, his pale hands cupping the other boy’s waist as they kiss— Geralt pulls away all too suddenly.

He’s gone by the time Julian opens his eyes, the forest still as if it is protecting its secret: the creature it houses inside. 

Julian goes home with black nails, black hair, black lips, and a bond he does not yet know of.

The Black Sun blazes in the day sky.

Julian loses something that day. 

Like the odd wildflower that grows grey in a field of reds and yellows, like the odd patch of grass that refuses to grow green though it’s been half a decade since the Black Sun had shone; they’ve lost color, he’s lost… _something_.

Patches of missing color are common, but no one touches them, fearing that the widely-believed evil of the Black Sun’s curse will leech into them, and turn them black and white, give them ill luck for centuries, or even mutate them so that they are more monster than man. 

Julian sneaks into the thicket of woods behind his home constantly, using the last year at the Lettenhove Mansion looking for Geralt.When he tires of finding no sign of his friend, he sits in his patch of clovers and weaves crown after crown of black-grey-white flowers and grass.

They rest beautifully against the dark brown of his hair.

He picks at the polish that coats his pitch-black nails when he’s in the forest, no one to fear him, no one to hide from; the trees dance with him, the fish swim alongside him, and the breeze duets with him oh-so beautifully, no ounce of hesitancy around the boy cursed, the boy tainted. 

He feels whole amongst the wild here.

Julian spends the last night he has home in the forest, calling Geralt’s name, speaking to him though he’s not sure if his friend is listening, much less still alive. He makes a bouquet of weeds; they’re of color, vibrant pinks that tinge white petals, wildgrass vivid green as he wraps it around the stems. He leaves it on the rock a bit to his side as he’s done for months now, with the addition of a little note placed underneath it, weighed down with a stone. _Dearest Geralt,_ it begins; _Yours, Julian_ ,it ends.

He looks at it, sighs, and gazes up to the stars held against the dark of the night. He falls asleep to the thought of tracing the pad of his thumb over white freckles.

Atlina’s call startles him awake just as dawn breaks. Julian is far too busy brushing himself off and hurrying back home in time to get ready for a carriage to Oxenfurt to notice the note and bouquet missing from underneath the stone.

He spends the next four years at Oxenfurt feeling empty. Julian learns, both of the seven liberal arts and of carnal pleasures, mastering them both if he does say so himself. He adores it, but no matter how much he learns, how many he beds, he finds himself achingly empty, longing to press his pale lips against ink black ones, to wrap his hands around long, curving horns, and to gaze into amber eyes fierier than summer suns. 

A dandelion grows between the cobblestone of college streets without its white, bright seed-head not yet formed, missing its other half. He looks at it a little longer, knows it will become whole soon enough, and names himself Jaskier.

Going back home is a relief. 

He sneaks in when the caravan of singer folk drop him off in the late hours of the night, heart wild as he leaves his belongings against a tree trunk some ways into the forest before running in deeper, bounding towards his patch of clovers. Branches and twigs catch at his doublet, his boots cover with muck, but it doesn’t matter, for he feels _whole_. He runs and runs and runs; he laughs, trips over his feet and falls, and runs some more. 

Trees grow thinner, his little clearing of clovers so close, and his heart is so full it could, it could burst. 

A figure sits in his clovers, long claws plucking flowers and gently holding their stems together. Freckles litter their back, like the galaxy on a clear night, spilling over strong shoulders, and a grey flower crown encircles curled horns, serving as a bridge between their black and the white of hair. 

“Geralt?” His friend startles, head half-turned, back and muscles tense. Jaskier tackles him before he can run. “ _Geralt_ ,” the man’s skin is oh-so warm against his own, amber eyes blinking up at him, lips parted and panting as Jaskier straddles his waist, pins him down in _their_ patch of clovers.

They stare at each other a moment longer; Geralt’s jaw defined where it had held a softness before. Good lips nervously bit down on, and white hair splays, aflame against the green of the clovers—

“How have you only gotten more beautiful since I saw you last?” Jaskier is helplessly, hopelessly in love. He hasn’t felt this whole in nearly half a decade, and when Geralt chuckles and leans up to press a kiss to Jaskier’s lips, he knows he’ll never feel whole again without him by his side. 

Jaskier realizes he’d been missing half his soul, that the Black Sun had entrusted each of them with half the other. They spend the night pressed together; the stars twinkle above them as Jaskier maps out constellations on his soul-mate’s skin.

Jaskier stares up at the Sun through the window, remembering a time when She had drowned the world in Her inky colors. He runs his fingers through shining white hair, tracing up the inner curve of a horn as his lover dozes on his chest.

In no way can the She be of evil, nor even a curse, for no curse is meant to leave Jaskier feeling at peace and at home as he does with Geralt curled into his side. They are bonded, but it is so for they are meant for one another, two lonely souls, both cursed under the same night— Jaskier is all things light, loud, and bright, Geralt his very opposite, and they are perfection intertwined.

Jaskier yawns, smiling down at Geralt who huffs in his sleep, annoyed at being jostled by his husband’s mild stretch. He’s too cute, that little pout of his lips, the freckles that dance pale yellow in the evening light; Jaskier sighs happily and lets his own eyes slip close, the sun’s warmth a blanket over the both of them, and falls prey to easy sleep.

They spend night after night in their cottage deep in their woods, falling asleep in each other’s arms and waking to the same. Jaskier traces his thumb over those freckles everyday, presses kisses down that back, laughs when a tail curls up his arm to hold him in place as they fuck, love. Geralt is beautiful, and Jaskier looks forward to spending forever with him. 

They set out into the world a decade later, Geralt under glamor as a blacksmith and Jaskier, a local bard. 

The world changes around them; people grow old, die, become born anew.

But they fall asleep in each other’s arms, and will wake to the same for decades to come. 

Another Black Sun arises on a warm June day, a stark contrast to the usually bright evenings. People watch with awe, stumbling out of their apartments, stopping in their cars to gaze to the sky.

Jaskier and Geralt share a smile, and return to their forest, to their patch of clovers They make their flower crowns and bouquets in the black and grey day as they have every century. They share kisses under the dim light, and Jaskier marvels at how beautiful his lover is, skin as pitch black as the glowing sky.

A bush rustles nearby just as Geralt adjusts a flower crown on Jaskier’s head. 

Geralt and Jaskier look up at the basket set by the edge of their patch; they look at each other.

A baby cries; inky-black fists and inky-black legs kick in the air, skin like starless night.

They name her Ciri. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought! Idk if this is truly any good lol first time writing in this style <33
> 
> tumblr's @persony-pepper!


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